


Sinking

by OUtSEL



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Mind Manipulation, POV Inanimate Object, Plants, Sensory Deprivation, The Feywild, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:22:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24145060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OUtSEL/pseuds/OUtSEL
Summary: When the fey turn you into a plant for their pleasure, your mind does not stop.
Kudos: 14





	Sinking

I hear the rustling of leaves; a light pressure by my ear. The pressure ventures closer and gives a chirp. The sound is sharp up close, enough to snap me out of blankness for a bit.

I can't tell what season it is- spring, perhaps? It is never Winter here – it is not her domain – but I've been feeling bare and worn since the turning.I don't get cold, it would require more sensation than I have. Blood, tissue, nerves, those things get cold. Bark will grow dry and brittle, will flake off, but bareness is different than cold.

I'm moving past equating my body to humanoid feeling. For the first weeks I would call things painful, hot, cold, tender. It helped, at first, but it did not help me come to terms with my new state.

The bird erupts in a shrill mating call. I wish it wasn't so close to my ear, deafening my few senses. Through my vision, poor as it is, I see the canopy of leaves above, dappling sunlight on my face. Soon enough the sun will breach the treeline and drown my vision in white.

I move in centimeters by the hour. I could crane my neck away, but the sun has been hiding from days. The luxury of sight isn't worth wilting.

I feel a lightness, and I realize the bird has fled. I feel a strange gratefulness in my chest as I see two birds dart together past my eyes. Mates. It takes a long while, but I close my eyes. I go blank again.

Will I still look like myself at the end of this? I know from the dull sensations that I have boughs snaking about my waist, curling up the torso like a sash. It branches out at my shoulder, where it has erupted into sheets of green leaves. The weight had surprised me at first, as I felt it drag my shoulder down deeper into the ground. My hands have long since dissolved into grasping roots. They have no function even if I could pull them out. It makes readjusting hard, my top half can only bend and crane so much to catch the light. I depend on my branches now, sending them searching upwards to catch light.

I think that may have been what the fey wanted, putting me in such a dappled clearing. I urge myself to grow upward, heaving my chest and face up to the sun.

Sometimes I worry my body is completely twisted around like a grasping vine, but the cooing of admiring pixies assure me I'm at least nice to look at. Their touches register only vaguely, enough to give me an impression of my body's shape.Face, neck, chest, shoulders, torso, legs... everything else.

I try to speak to the pixies, but my mouth is completely filled by stems and buds. Even if I willed a moan out of my throat, it comes out as the creaking and cracking of branches. I do not want this to be my voice. I surrender my mouth to the overgrowth.

The next time I am roused, it is not by an outside sensation. Rather, I feel something new on my body. Its quivering, sensitive. In a few places, then all over. Its not till one breaches the futile gates of my mouth that I realize its flowers. I am blossoming.

The flowers are a very new sensation. They're weightless like air, yet so very responsive. The petals move and pulse subconsciously, slowly over hours of time. When they are brushed against I feel the pollen collecting around the stamen. I feel the pistil as well, beckoning to pollinators. The feeling of pollination is the closest thing to pleasure to my alien senses. The pixies come by to scoop handfuls of pollen from the blooms in my mouth, leaking powdered gold.

I have no doubt this pollen has other uses than breeding. Aphrodesiac? Paralysis agent? In the depths of my being, what still posesses thought, I wonder fearfully if its what turns more men into beings like me. Alas, I have no heart beat in panic, no humors to arouse me to alarm or disgust. The fear in my thoughts dissipate like so much pollen on the wind.

The sun is staying out later and later, but the flowers growing from me are relentless. clusters of pink petals gather around my peripheral vision –I'll have no vision at all, save for the pink hues of sunlight dancing through.

One day, I feel a strange quiver on the right side of my face. The sensation bursts out, peeling into six. I didn't realize until just then that my right eye had just blossomed, at some point being devoured by a bud within my socket. Its petals are so long they drape over the bridge on my nose and over my only remaining eye.

My world is becoming that of sun, water, the flutter of blossoms and dance of insects and birds upon me. Pixies whisper secrets to me, but I don't even listen. I dull my human senses, my overactive mind. I can no longer be vexed by them, and they bore quickly and retreat. These days, they only return when asked, usually to gather my petals and quench my thirsting roots on dry days.

Sun. Reach. Rain. Drink. Wind. Shiver. The petals fall away, bathing my face in sun. I don't open my eyes. The blossoms rain from my open mouth onto my roots. I leave my lips parted for leaves to spring forth. No use for a voice. My ears have grown and split into branches, and all that comes in is the melody of bark on bark, leaves brushing past. A cherubic voice sings to me, but the words are lost to me. I've willed my brain to still, to instinct. Plants do not think. Senseless, empty, I slip away into a thing without consciousness, but not at rest.

The sun moves. I bend backwards. A hand splays on my chest and I creak absently. Pixies pour water into my mouth, giggling as the basin overflows, but I do not speak. I have not the senses to be grateful. Animals and sprites gather beneath me for shade, laying their heads in my lap. It barely registers but for the pressure. They graze and pull up plants by my roots, and allow me to drink deeper. I sink into the earth.

When pixies return to rest in my branches, I barely feel them. I am in the earth, nothing but the suction of water into my roots.

Time passes. Thoughts come slower. Rarer. Disconnected.

Sun low, sink.Rain, long. Pressure, animal. Wind. Sink deep. No move.

Deeper. Drink.

Time...

What is

What is what

No more

Just

sink

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my first AO3 work! Apologies for the sparse formatting, this was originally written out in Omm Writer.


End file.
